


heavy heart

by Cannes



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Father-Son Relationship, Found Family, Other, Star Wars Modern AU, and sometimes and good dad is only defined by selfless love, some mentions of past abuse, sometimes family isn't blood related
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:48:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28535412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cannes/pseuds/Cannes
Summary: Din Djarin has seen things; he'd done more.He's a man who has spent his life living in the gray areas just to get by. If that meant having to get his hands dirty, then that was just the way it was.But when it isn't just him that he has to take care of anymore, Din will have to reconsider everything he used to know about making it in the world. Especially when his past comes back to haunt them.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda
Comments: 13
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> loosely based around the short film Sværvægter/ Heavyweight. It served to make me teary eyed nearly four years ago, and managed to do it recently, too. Really great short and i highly recommend it to you all.

If ever there was a moment where Din had contemplated the distinction between a good man and a bad one, it was only very briefly, and more likely than not purely out of need to consider risk. Which, even then really only translated to factoring in a bounty's probability for innocence of the accusation, and really had nothing to do with a deeper meaning of morals. 

A long time ago, too long to properly remember, his own mentor had told him that a good man could be just as guilty as a bad man could be innocent, depending on what the charges were and who was the one giving them out. 

Din had thought about what that meant a lot, back when he was a child himself and still trying to figure out how to lace his boots properly. He couldn’t remember the exact moment when the warning had stopped mattering, or he stopped caring, but it had been years since he had heard the words echo in his head.

For a long time, the only thing that mattered was completing the job. And getting paid, of course. Not because he craved being rich, but mostly because bounty hunting wasn't cheep, and the guild took a heavy percentage. 

It probably made him a simple man, but simple was what got the job done in his line of work. There was no room to over complicate complicated matters, after all.

What he could remember, though, was when his mentor's words first crept back into his mind. They had come in sporadic moments over the last year and a half; the ones where he would look down to find big brown eyes clocking him with something akin to awe, or when a small hand would find itself intermingled in the palm of his own larger one. 

They came in the form of an innocent question from a six-year-old with a mouthful of noodles not yet ten hours ago, asking why everyone thought that some cartoon villain was bad, when all they had wanted was to do what they thought was right. 

Din himself hadn’t been raised with a perfectly magnetized ethical compass to make such assessments. Hell, he hadn’t been raised with a lot of things, and least of all cartoons that begged moral questions like that. Which, if they were all meant to pose questions that required such delicate thought, he thought maybe that was for the best. 

No. Din Djarin was raised to be honest and honorable (however one was to interpret that) and to shoot a gun straight and to throw a punch with his thumb on the outside of his fist. 

Back then, there were no moments to dwell on the goodness of his action. Certainly no time to dwell on how bad some of the things his brain told his hands to do. 

Life had been simple, before. 

Now? As he laid in a too big and too comfortable bed, soft breathing coming in puffs next to him, in a home that felt more full than their spare possessions could be blamed for… Now, everything was confused. 

Now, when those eyes would transfix him with their stare, looking at him for an answer that would make sense out of the blurred lines of good versus evil, Din found himself with a feeling of want intermingled with guilt that nearly left him breathless. Like some bigger truth was being sucked right out of closed off parts of his heart; the great and terrible need to be and do right by the kid in his care.

The thing about it all was that he wasn’t all that sure what any of that meant, or how to achieve it. 

And he most definitely didn’t know how to answer such philosophical questions. Not then, standing barefoot in their kitchen, soap suds dripping from his fingers and onto his toes and floor. Certainty not now, lying -- for all intents and purposes -- alone in his thoughts, staring at a blank ceiling, searching. 

He wasn’t a coward, but he wasn’t dumb enough to try and bullshit an answer to something so seemingly important. That’s what Karga was for, and to whom he had deferred the kid's question to the night before. Karga was paid to make bullshit sound believable, after all.

And that should have been the end of the topic. But, Din still found himself thinking about it, hours later, forgoing sleep in favor of lying on his back awkwardly as little feet dug into his ribs.

It seemed that these were the exact moments that bred ground to consider such thoughts; like that he knew that he wanted to be more than what he was. That he had to be more, for the sake of the kid. 

The kid, who stirred, blissfully unaware to Din’s existential crisis as he scooted closer to the heat source next to him; toes now digging into the foot shaped imprints marring his ribs, distracting enough to put a pin in Din’s own angst for the moment. 

Judging by the bleary sun filtering through the curtains, it was nearly time to get up. 

Din himself wasn’t one to over indulge in rest, but the bundle next to him certainly was, and it was incredibly hard to move least he deny the boy the little bit of comfort that he received in sleep. 

That’s why, more often than not, he let the boy squirm into his own bed. A habit that he had been firmly against during the first few months of their cohabitation, but that he had eventually given into. Mainly because it seemed to quell the nightmares that plagued him, and saved from having to clean the soaked sheets after a particularly bad one. 

Someone with more experience for these kinds of things might say that letting the kid sleep in the same bed wasn’t going to help the episodes or trauma, but for all that Din could say no to (and the list was increasing everyday) he couldn’t deny the kid the simple act of a peaceful sleep. 

If that meant turning into a punching bag for little limbs, it was the necessary price to pay. 

But, despite his willingness to give the boy a good night's sleep, living a life by the law meant having a normal job and being on time. It also meant getting the kid to school washed, fed, and in something other than pajamas (he learned that one the hard way). It sometimes meant reaching out gently to caress the mop of bed head atop the child’s crown, just firm enough to bring a sleeping consciousness back to reality. 

“Hey, kid,” he said. It came out as a hoarse whisper, which was probably more terrifying than soothing, and highly counterproductive when trying to wake someone, but he couldn’t bring himself to be any louder with the sun still barely up. 

The child stirred briefly, giving a giant and over exaggerated yawn before stretching all of his limbs directly into Din’s side. The boy came to rest with his knees tucked almost entirely under his caretaker; like he was burrowing further into the bed with little to no intention of getting up. 

“Nope. I don’t think so,” he groused, trying to lightly tug at a foot pressing into his kidney. “It’s time to get ready.” 

The kid whined before squirming further into the blankets and mattress.

Stubborn. 

“Fine. Sleep.” Din swung his legs over the edge of the bed, depositing his share of blankets onto the mound that was the child. He let his feet hit the cold floor, stretching his stiff muscles until he felt an old injury pull in his shoulder painfully. The kid made stretching look so easy, which in turn made Din wonder when he had gotten so old. He peaked back over his good shoulder to the lump in the blankets, feeling a little more vindictive as he realized it was also his back that pulled angrily from the movement. “I’ll only make enough eggs for myself, since you won’t have the time to eat any.” 

An eye poked out of the pile and Din looked away quickly, occupying himself with pulling some socks on. 

“Scrambled?” came the muffled inquiry. 

He moved his aching body across the room to grab his work clothes. “Would you like them scrambled?” 

From behind him he could hear the blankets shuffling, and then a fully audible, “Yes!” And when Din didn’t reply, because he was too busy smirking, a little, “Please,” was tacked on. 

“Well, we have to get up first to make them.” 

There was the sound of the springs in the mattress complaining, and, before Din could turn around, the little boy was up and running towards the kitchen without him.

ooOoo

The kid ate his eggs with toast, while Din drank black coffee in-between shoving Omera approved and six-year-old appropriate lunch foods in a lunch sack.

Apparently, muscle milk and saltine crackers were not sufficient nutrition for a child. But, then, how was Din supposed to know that when he himself been living off of protein bars and chewing gum for two decades? 

If he hadn’t been so stead-fast and determined to prove the first judge who called him an under-qualified father and former delinquent wrong, he might have tried to argue with Omera when she had taken him shopping and loaded the cart down with every item on the food pyramid. 

That had been a trip that his wallet wouldn’t soon forget. 

It wasn’t that he had any intention to spoil the kid, but the boy definitely hadn’t been going hungry, if the twelve pounds he had put on his undernourished body in the last six months was any indication. That was just necessary to his general health.

The projection screen, on the other hand, wasn’t something that Din would have purchased for himself, or for the kid, and it definitely wasn't for anyone's health, but it came with the rest of the furnished apartment, so it got to stay. Besides, the few channels it was able to pick up were hit or miss between the local news, some televangelist, and the limited random kid-friendly show that would someone sneak through, one of which now played as background noise to Din, and which the kid watched in rapture. 

Or, at least, Din thought the kid was watching the show. That’s why it startled him only slightly when the tiny voice spoke up to ask, “Can I go to work with you?” 

Din spared the little boy a peripheral look and noted that he was being watched carefully from across the room. He continued to shove a juice box in the kid’s bag. “Why?” 

It was an extended pause that had him looking over his shoulder at the kid fully, who was now starring down at his plate and shoving the discarded crust from his toast around with his fork. He wore a far away look, like he was looking past the plate and through the table. Somewhere far, far away. Somewhere that Din had come to recognize as a place that was hard to pull him back from when he would go there. 

The kid shrugged to himself, “Because it would be better than going to school.” 

For as hyper-active and bubbly as the kid could be, he could turn incredibly withdrawn and sad at the drop of a hat and for little to no apparent reason. 

It made avoiding these episodes incredibly difficult. 

Din wasn’t equipped for most conversations. But he recognized the impending mood that the kid was heading for, and the result would be either to take the kid to school while having his inner melt-down and get a call in a few hours to pick him up when he would lash out, or for them both just to stay home and miss school and work. 

Din didn’t miss work. He didn’t much care for the work he did now, but it was the principle. Besides, he was only four days short of meeting his parole-not parole work contingent. He couldn’t risk Peli suddenly deciding to sack him for calling out (not that she would, he knew. She loved the kid, too. But, still…) 

Rejoining the table, cup of coffee in hand, Din took to occupying the seat across from the kid now. “Yeah? You think?” he asks, darting a hand forward quick enough to steal the piece of toast that was about to be speared. “How can you be so sure if you’ve never been to where I work?” He tears the piece of bread in even smaller bites to chew on as the kid thought. More so to keep his hands busy than any real desire to eat discarded crust, but, still…

“I went with you to your last work,” the kid responds, eventually. 

The older man nodded thoughtfully as he wiped some of the bread crumbs into his hand from the table top. Going willingly and being forced to tag along are two entirely different things, Din thought, but the kid wasn’t able to pick up on that distinction. “That was different," he says in place of clarifying. “I’m not doing that anymore. I work at a garage fixing land vehicles now. You have no interest in that.” 

“I helped you fix our car before.” 

'Helped' was a term Din would use very loosely for what the kid was referring to. Turned the key’s ignition and held a wrench were hardly things that Din couldn’t have done himself, but having an extra set of hands (albeit, very tiny and uncoordinated ones) did come in handy on that particular occasion. 

But from his own recollection, on a storming night with the threat of the rain turning into snow, neither of them had been in too great of spirits. “Did you enjoy doing that?” he asks, anyway, hoping that the question would spur the kid’s memory of how awful that had been. 

And maybe he was thinking about it, too, as he scratched absently at his cheek and rubbed his nose from the phantom chill. “Not really.” 

“Exactly.” The clock on the stove read 6:45 AM, and the kid still had to be put in the bath and dressed. “What’s wrong with school? You have other kids there. And I thought you liked your teachers?” 

Another non-committal shrug. “It’s fine.” 

“But?” 

The light switch was hit again, and the kid looked up with him with a nearer expression, like he wasn't so far away, but nonetheless still distantly sad. “Nothing,” the kid said, giving him a lopsided smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, but still relaxed Din tremendously because it meant he wasn’t gone from the present and back in the past. “I’ll go to school.” 

“If someone is bothering you –“ 

The kid scooted down off his chair, taking his dish with him to push over the edge of the kitchen counter and into the sink that he could barely reach. Din got up and took it from him so that it didn’t break on impact. “No. Everyone is really nice and helpful and...” The kid stands in front of Din, shuffling his toes and subconsciously rocking back and forth. “I like school,” he says, and looks up, right into Din’s soul with those big brown eyes. All dejected and lying. 

It didn’t cease to amaze the middle aged man how open children were. How they either didn’t feel the need or weren’t equipped to conceal their emotions yet. Din couldn’t remember whether or not he had been like that as a kid, but he tended to think that he hadn’t, considering. 

He didn’t want to push for an answer, mostly because he didn’t want to work himself up to the point he was storming into the school to demand answers. 

Instead, he took a steadying breath, and stooped down on one knee to be at eye level with the kid. 

One of the earliest things he learned and had to become okay with was physical contact to comfort. It was something the kid had to become okay with, too, and it didn’t take him nearly as long as Din to learn that hugs solved nearly every problem. So, if Din scooped the kid into his arms as smoothly as if they had been doing this for years, then, maybe, he was a quick learner, too. “Okay,” he says, putting an end to the conversation. He picked the kid up and made their way to the bathroom, already doing the mental math for time. 

He could feel the kid’s head rest against his shoulder, and the breath was so close that it tickled his neck as the kid asked very seriously, “Who do you think would win in a fight: Han Solo or Batman?” 

The kid’s mood swings were bound to give him whiplash. Happy, sad, anger, elation… Din had spent so long ignoring emotions that having them so openly expressed and directed at him, specifically, was dizzying. But it was also sort of wonderful, too… A fact that he would never admit to another human being. 

A tap on his cheek roused him back to the present, and the expectant child who was waiting on an answer. An answer that didn’t require nearly as much brain power or carful thought as last night’s big question. 

“Han,” he replies absent mindlessly, setting the kid down on the tiles in the bathroom before turning the tap on. 

They watch the tub fill up, and the kid nods firmly, obviously still deep in thought on the subject. “Yeah. Me too,” he says, definitively, like it held more meaning than Din could possibly hope to understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn't want to write this, because i knew i couldn't do what was in my head justice. yet, here we are, because i am a masochist, apparently. 
> 
> This is the first thing i have ever written for any of the Star Wars franchises, and i am so glad it is a modern au because we would all be throwing stone at me otherwise.
> 
> Also, Han Solo VS Bruce Wayne, no special tools besides a single blaster -- Han would win. He shoots first, obviously. 
> 
> enjoyed it? hated it? let me know?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din continues to struggle with his new lifestyle. 
> 
> Peli's droids plot his demise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a quick note on setting:  
> This is a modern AU. But, like, set way in the future kind of modern. Think Cyberpunk 2077 or Blade Runner. It's a modern AU, but they have droids and high tech stuff, basically.

It takes nearly half an hour longer to get them out the door. Much of which was spent ping-ponging between trying to draw the kid out of the recesses of his own brain, and removing any book or toy that distracted the little boy’s attention from the task at hand. 

By the time they made it into the car, it was clear that the kid was on a tightrope of his own design, balancing precariously betwern trying to comfort his caretaker, but also trying to keep from falling into some internalized abyss.

The concern for the latter of which being why Din felt inclined to wait just a little longer in the school’s drop off line. Just to make sure the child got in safe, he told himself.

But, even when the kid was out of sight and inside the walls of the school, Din couldn’t make himself drive away.

It wasn’t that the kid never acted, well… weird. He had nearly every excuse in the book to behave a little abnormally, coming from the life he had. Some adults behaved worse and had come from far better circumstances.

It was just that something felt different this time; foreboding in a way that Din could only place as the feeling of walking into a set-up, but not knowing where the attackers were going to come from.

Historically, the feeling didn’t sit well. Especially when the last time the kid got in this kind of mood they ended up on the run for nearly a month.

But that had been under different circumstances.

Much different.

Circumstances that were now done and over with and that they didn’t have to worry about reoccurring.

With a long drawn out sigh, one that almost had his entire soul leaving his body, Din put the car in drive, much to the relief of the growing line behind him, and started to pull back into the line of traffic.

If his nerves hadn’t been so utterly shot, he might have missed the soft thump that came from the backseat. As it was, he heard the tiny sound, and checked over his shoulder just in time to see the gleam of metal slide under the passenger seat.

Din stopped the car short, no doubt further aggravating the cars behind him, if the way they laid on their horn was any indication. He starred at the old mechanical component for several more seconds before he made a (probably illegal) U-turn so that he could pull the car around to park.

Once safely out of the way of the other morning commute parents, Din checked to make sure the metal piece was still there. It was, though now having slid a little closer to the door.

It was the very first thing that Din had given the kid. Or, rather, the first thing that the kid had stolen of his. 

Just a stupid ball bearing that he’d become fixated on, and that Din had spent days trying to convince to stop touching. During that time, it had somehow become almost like a comfort blanket for the kid; something to fidget with when he got nervous. Din hadn’t seen it for a few months, and the kid hadn’t mentioned it, so he had thought that the boy had simple grown out of it, considering he had other, more child-like things to preoccupy him now.

Turns out, he realized, stretching backwards and over the center console to grab the piece of metal, that wasn’t the case.

If he spent more time turning the bearing over in his hand than was strictly necessary, it was only because he had a few minutes to spare before he was expected at work, he reasoned.

And when he turned the ignition off, it was purely to save on gas.

But, when he got out of the car, ball bearing firmly in his grasp, and started the slow march to the front steps of elementary education, Din ran out of excuses for what he was doing.

The halls were buzzing with activity when he entered through the front doors, children still rushing to their assigned classrooms and teachers lingering along the walls to usher them. 

Din had only been in the school twice, once for enrollment, and then again to physically remove the kid from under his desk after a particularly bad temper tantrum. So, he knew where to go, and made to set in the general direction, but, even as busy as it was, it didn’t take long before he was stopped dead in his tracks.

Understandable, after all.

It was a good school.

Definitely out of budget.

Definitely not the type of place where the parents wore grease stained jumpsuits and patchy stubble.

The young man that stopped him was dressed in a light blue suit, the school’s emblem embroidered on the breast, and his golden yellow tie firmly secured around his neck in a way that looked suffocating, but that he wore with ease. And if his too straight back and perfectly white smile didn’t give it away, the brilliant non-human blue eyes absolutely confirmed that the other man was cybernetically enhanced, which instantly put Din on edge.

“Can I help you?” the cyborg asked, bright voice and professional demeanor almost concealing the way those artificial eyes cast Din with quick judgment, while using his tall body to block the other man from progressing any farther down the hall.

“I need to speak with Omera,” Din started to say, but it did little to ease the defensive cyborg. He wasn’t good at this still; disarming situations casually, placidly. Especially with artificial intelligence. He had used threat and physical intimidation for so long, he wondered if he would ever become adjusted enough to _not_ scare someone just by opening his mouth. But, he was trying (and with a modified robot no less. Ha!) so if it took him a second or two, and a few stumbles over his words, he still managed to get out the, “My, uh, son… He’s in her class. My name is Din – Din, Djarin.”

The other man-machine seemed to consider him more intently this time, and then its gaze turned distanced, far away -- like it was looking at something that Din could not see. After a few seconds, it made a small humming noise, coming back to reality quickly and with a snap of its neck to the side. It turned to face Din again, a mock-calming smile in place. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Djarin,” it said, extending a hand. “Arthur Welsh, at your service. I teach second grade maths, so you’ll forgive me if I didn’t recognize you immediately. We take the children’s safety extremely seriously, as I’m sure you can appreciate.” Arthur stepped to the side, for Din to pass. “If you don’t mind, I’ll walk with you to her classroom?”

He did mind, though. Din minded greatly and would very much like anything other than being escorted by a robot riding some poor dead guy’s meat suit.

So, if he shoved past the the still smiling cyborg more roughly than was strictly necessary in place of an answer, he would have hoped that to convey the message.

As it was, though, city-class cyborgs were meant to follow rules and create order, and so Din was not the least little bit surprised to glance to his side and see the machine keeping a respectful pace there next to him.

They came to Omera’s classroom quick enough, though. The door was still open in anticipation of late arrivals, so they stopped just out of view of the kids’ desks to avoid causing a stir.

Omera herself was weaving her way back to the front of the room, blue skirt billowing around her ankles, and gentle smile on her lips for no one in particular; the rising sun casting a warm glow around her entire body, and it brightened her already glowing skin.

It was a charming look. One that Din didn’t quite understand, but knew that he didn’t get tired of seeing.

But, of course, as soon as she spotted him, the smile dropped, and her brows knitted in worry. The grand effect of Din Djarin displaying clear in the woman’s face.

She must have said some excuse to the class, because she made no time to come out into the hall, shutting the door quietly behind her.

“Iggy,” she greeted the meat-suit kindly. And then, not unkindly, but definitely not trying to spare any feelings, she turned to Din, “What’s wrong?”

“Mr. Djarin, Ms. Sorgan,” Arthur said, nodding. Its job clearly finished and needing to return to its own class, it turned without saying another work and made its way down the hall, dress shoes barely making a sound against the polished wood grain.

Din watched the cyborg’s retreating back, all the way until it disappeared around a corner. 

No matter how real the things got in appearance, he doubted that he would ever be fully comfortable in the presence of one.

Omera, on the other hand, for all the goodness that was in her, didn’t even spare the man-machine a second glance, instead favoring to stare intently at Din, like he was the reason for concern. “Is there something wrong?” she asked, again. 

“No,” he said, quickly. A lie. “I’m sorry,” he muttered equally as fast. A truth, to make up for the lie. “For interrupting,” he clarified, nodding to the classroom, because he was awkward in these situations on a good day, and the way Omera was searching his face like she could read his mind if she just tried hard enough was _not_ helping. So, he gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, and just forced the words out, like he was giving a debrief. “The kid is in one of _those_ moods. It started this morning, and didn’t look like it had eased up that much when I dropped him off.”

If Omera thought him strange, she was kind enough to not let even the tiniest indication cross her expression. Instead, she nodded solemnly, glancing over her shoulder towards the classroom like she could see through the walls. Hell, with the way the past year had been, Din was starting to think maybe she could see through things. “I noticed,” she said, turning back to Din. “He seemed like he was managing for right now,” she told him, obviously trying to soothe his worries.

It almost worked.

He nods like he believes her, but still extends the hand with the bearing to the teacher. “Can you give this to him, anyway?”

Omera just looks at it, making no move to grab the piece. Then, a small smile creeps across her mouth as she reaches out to take it. “Haven’t seen this in a while,” she comments, flipping the little metal component over again and again.

Din wonders if she notices that its still warm from being held so tightly in his own hand. For some reason, he hopes that she does.

Then he instantly squishes that thought somewhere very deep inside his stomach.

Instead, he tells her, “I think he was hiding it.” 

She nods again. And Din is so grateful that she cannot, in fact, read minds. “Kids do that sometimes. Usually when they want to protect something they have a particularly strong attachment to.”

He deadpans. “It’s a ball bearing.”

“Sometimes it’s not so much the object, but what it represents,” she tells him.

A dark warehouse, the resulting gunfight and blood splattering the walls, weeks spent on the run… Din doesn’t have the heart to tell Omera that she’s wrong; that all it could represent were long and hard days trying to get the kid safe. Not whatever source of comfort she thinks it is supposed to remind the kid of.

So, he doesn’t tell her. But she looks at him like she knows, anyway. “I’m late for work,” he says, instead.

She looks like she wants to say something, but there is a loud bang from the classroom that draws both of their attention. Omera sighs, and gives Din a warm smile. “I’ll call you later, if you want? During their lunch, to let you know how he’s doing.”

He nods once. “I would appreciate that.”

“Okay.” Omera bounces the bearing in her hand again, and gives the door another glance just as there is a loud, shrieking giggle that erupts from the other side. Turning back to Din, she says, “Now, stop worrying and go. It would be a shame to get fired four days before your parole ends.” 

That stops the gears from whirring in his head for a moment, and he can’t help when he asks, “You’re keeping track?”

She levels him with a look that could only be described as a cross between disbelief and fondness. “Though it may come as a surprise to know, you do have people that care about _you_. Both of you,” she says, reaching out to touch his arm gently, and just brief enough to be casual.

It’s so quick that Din isn’t sure it even happened before the first grade teach is retreating to her classroom and leaving him terribly conflicted.

He stays that way as he leaves the school.

It doesn’t lessen no matter the distance that he puts between himself and those words.

He finds himself wringing the steering wheel as he firmly tries to not think about it.

**ooOoo**

He might actually get fired, he thinks as he pulls into the back lot of the repair shop.

Ordinarily, he is the epitome of punctuality. Even with everything the kid puts him through in the mornings. There have been no more than three occasions when Din has been late. And exactly none where he has been a late as is finds himself now.

And though Peli is a good boss, she is also a no nonsense boss. She’s the kind of boss that won’t give you shit unless you give her a reason to, and Din knows that he has given her plenty.

Intentionally, or otherwise.

That’s why, when he finally makes it into the garage, he deliberately ignores the gaggle of droids mopping up some mess and goes straight to the dragon’s den to get whatever was coming done and over with. 

He doesn’t bother knocking on the office door, though he probably should have.

He finds the small woman sitting behind her makeshift desk, which is mostly just comprised of an old work bench and some crates. Her red curls hang in drapes around her face, making it hard to judge if there is an expression there or not. She’s also soldering what looks like some linkage arm, so she doesn’t even look up as Din approaches, coming to stop right in front of the desk.

It takes a solid minute before Peli graces him with an upward tilt of her head, goggles concealing her eyes, and then she sets back to work, but not before saying, “Well, look what the cat finally dragged in.”

Though he never spent time serving any specific military, Din stands for all intent and purposes at attention, hands clasped behind his back and nails digging into skin. “I’m late and I’m sorry for that,” he starts, but Peli holds up her soldering iron like a threat, so he clamps his jaw shut and waits.

And waits.

And then waits some more.

It’s roughly five minutes of watching Peli switch between a magnified piece of glass and her own eyes held so close to the smoke that she barely saves her nose from being burnt, before she sets the tools aside and looks at him with her full attention. “Kid troubles?” she asks, giving him a once over. And though he doesn’t answer, she still sighs, and leans back in her chair to throw her feet on the desk. “I guess I should give you a hard time now, right? Say something about not letting it happen again, or else?” They hold eye contact for a moment, before Peli sneers at the thought, throwing a dismissive hand to the side. She straightens up, rising to her full five-nothing height, and goes to the large bay window that looks over the garage floor. She doesn’t face Din as she says to the glass pane, “K managed to royally screw up that Razer’s tune up. Oil, transmission, washer… Fluids everywhere.” She looks back at him and holds her finger out to jab in his direction. “That, right there – _That’s_ why I’m not going to ream you for being late. Good help is hard to find, and though you’re a prick, you’re one of the good ones, Djarin.”

Din doesn’t say anything as he nods, but he does let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

“Now,” she says, throwing her hands on her hips and staring him up and down, “Go get those droids away from that Razer before they do anything else to ruin it.”

He doesn’t salute, though Peli makes him feel like he should. Instead, he nods once more and gives her a simple “Yes, ma’am” before turning on his heel and descending back to the main floor. 

Though he has had more than one gun pointed in his face, Din doesn’t think his heart has ever pounded so thoroughly in his chest before.

He has four days to make sure he didn’t get fired. Per the terms of his parole-not-parole he had to keep steady and legal employment for a solid year.

No interruptions.

No write-ups.

No dismissals.

He had four days to cross that box off. Then, just another three years to not get in any kind of legal trouble. Not even a parking ticket.

He could worry about that after he crossed one teetering bridge, though.

Din is so preoccupied with his feeling of relief that he doesn’t notice the greenish-blue fluid coating the bottom step leading to the garage floor, and he almost loses his balance as his boot slips out from under him. He manages to catch himself clumsily and very loudly on the banister, just short of taking an impromptu bath in the mixed liquids.

He shoots a look up to where he can feel he’s being watched, and the three droids drop to the floor like they’re at risk of being shot.

If Din still carried, they just might have been.

The glare he sends at the droids as he rights himself is nonetheless just as lethal. 

“Get a rag and get this up,” he barks, and there is a clatter of noise as the droids rush to obey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ:  
> **THIS IS NOT AN OMERA X DIN FIC. In fact, there will be NO SHIPPING in this at all.**
> 
> I'm sorry if that is disappointing!
> 
> But, since Omera x Din is hinted at in cannon, it gets to make an appearance. 
> 
> YOU DON'T HAVE TO READ, THIS IS ME RAMBLING: 
> 
> there will be special cameo appearance and other shipped relationships alluded to, if for no other reason than to pay respects to some of the really great fics within this fandom. 
> 
> Relationships and characters will be added in the tags and they appear. 
> 
> If you want to see a special cameo, let me know? If you ABSOLUTELY DO NOT want to see a certain character or pairing alluded to or used, also let me know, because nothing is safe. i spent a little bit outlining the characters I want to use, and how, and i feel so accomplished by my attempt at OUTLINING, y'all!
> 
> Chapter III was technically supposed to be Chapter II, but then, like, the ball happened and now we're a chapter behind. But Chapter III has this thing called plot? IDK sounds fake to me, but we'll see... 
> 
> Hated this? Liked it? Felt indifferent towards the whole thing? Let me know?


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